I met my husband when I was 19. I’m not 19 anymore. Which means I’ve been with him for a very very very long time. We’ve grown-up together. Built a life together. He likes to say that he knows me better than anyone (mostly true except when it comes to my coffee order, food order, etc). In all seriousness he does know me well. He knows I don’t like restaurants with too many TVs, it gives me heart palpitations. He knows I prefer to end all good times by midnight or earlier. He knows I don’t like to PET animals. I like animals. I wish them well in the world. But I don’t like to touch them. He loves a good dog/cat rub. He’s saved me from appearing cold and heartless many times by blocking an oncoming pet. He loves me like that.

I think I know him really well too. For instance, I know that potholes bother him like inequality bothered Martin Luther King. I know that sounds like a massive exaggeration, but really it’s mostly true. Actually I’m not sure anything in the world bothers him like bad infrastructure. He’s fallen in love with dumpy towns simply based on clean, well-paved roads. The other love of his life – besides his wife, kids and good roads – is grass. No. Not weed. Actual grass. He loves a good bed of grass. Or yard of grass. Or whatever it’s called. Nothing makes him happier than new grass sprouts. He’s like a proud father.

But for all our mind-reading of each other’s habits, wants, like/dislikes, etc, he still insists on asking what I consider the worst question known to man-kind, “What’s Wrong?”. I know that sounds like an exaggeration too. But it drives me bananas. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve asked that question to him….our entire marriage. I don’t have to ask. I know. I know because I listen. I see. I remember. That’s how I know. I don’t know with everyone. I have to ask friends. I sometimes have to ask my kids. I also ask my co-workers. “What’s wrong?”. Fill me in. What have you been up to? What’s keeping you up at night? But usually, like 99.999% of the time, I know what’s wrong with my husband. It’s a work thing. Or a health thing. Or a schedule thing. I ask questions like, “does your knee still hurt?” or “What happened today with that _____?” filling in the blank of whatever work issue he’s told me about. You get it. And some of the time… wait for it….I don’t even ask! That’s right. You wanna know how to have a long marriage? If you sense your spouse is upset in any way, ignore it. Let him/her talk about it or let it blow over. I know this goes against most marriage advice you get from say…experts…but letting it blow over is a very powerful marriage tool, in my opinion. Not good for all occasions, but it comes in handy sometimes. Your mate seems frustrated, irritated or moody? Go for a walk without them. Leave them alone for a bit. Works like a charm. Except when it doesn’t. In which case I go back to my earlier point, I’m no expert. You’re on your own.

If there is something wrong with me, there are only a handful of reasons for my salty mood. 1) Him. 2) Work. 3) He ordered my Chinese food incorrectly. That’s about it folks. It really doesn’t get more interesting than that. Why doesn’t he know that? Him asking a broad, open-ended question like, “what’s wrong?” just makes me angrier, and I probably wasn’t even angry in the first place, just distracted or annoyed. Maybe I watched a commercial and now I’m sad thinking about how I never packed my kids a healthy bento box lunch. Maybe I heard the news and realized it was the end of the world. Or maybe I just ate tomato sauce too late in the day and now I’m paying for it. There’s too many ways to answer that question! If he just narrowed it down a bit, it would be better. Or, even better, let it go. Let it blow over. The old blow-over technique that I’ve been trying to teach him for two decades. You see what I’m saying here?

What am I saying here? I don’t even know. I think I’m just complaining. Or whining. See how easy it is to get me to open up? You didn’t even ask me anything.

I love this bag. I think you would love this bag too. This bag has been in our lives for a long time. It’s come to the beach. It’s moved homes. It’s taken dirty clothes to the laundromat and donated clothes to the shelter (this is a double edged sword. I feel good about donating clothes, then I feel bad for asking for my bag back. Oh well).

This bag cost 40 cents when I first started using it, then 99 cents. Then they reinvented it and asked $5.99 for it (they added a zipper). Then there was a revolt and the 99 cent version came back. All was well in the world.

In my opinion..this bag is as useful as my iPhone. Yes. Yes it is. Stop shaking you head. And it’s healthier for me too. I don’t stare at it for hours a day. It may even be better than Instagram…maybe that’s going to far.

This bag has gone camping, been muddy, been wet. This bag has hauled blankets and pillows and towels. There’s almost nothing it can’t do.

And the handles. The handles! Two to choose from. One short. One long enough to put over your shoulder.

IKEA has given us lots of wonderful things. Beds for $20, shelves in 1,000 pieces, meatballs definitely not made of horse meat. But this bag takes the cake. The Swedish cake.

A few months ago I got a Fit Bit. I was so excited! And then I wasn’t. It’s been collecting dust in a drawer ever since. Well not no more!
After a fun summer of eating, drinking, beaching and overall gluttony – I’m done. For the love of God and my zippers, I’m done.
I’m putting it out there so I can’t back out. From now on, my Fit Bit and I are attached to the hip. Or the wrist. She goes where I go! I’ve assigned her a gender and have already started talking to her. That’s what you do right?
So here I am at the beginning.
0 steps.
0 calories burned.
0 everything.
I’ve got nowhere to go but up. I mean down.
Wish me luck.

I’ve been dying to find out what all the fuss is about. Lots of my blogging buddies juice all the time. One of them recommended a documentary called, “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead”. So on a rockin’ Friday night – I watched it. It was incredibly inspiring.

Does this mean I’m on a juice fast for 60 days? Ha! You crack me up.

Does this mean I’m on a juice fast for 10 days? No way Jose.

Does this mean I’m on a juice fast for 3 days? Nah.

I like chewing. And I love food. I’d be a sad, miserable person without it. Nobody wants that.

This just means I understand the redeeming qualities of fresh juice and want to incorporate it into our family’s life. You should watch the documentary. It outlines all the benefits of juicing which I won’t go into here. It also makes me want to travel to Australia, but that’s another story.

If my mother knew I had a blog and could get over the personal stuff I share on this blog and was reading my blog today, she’d nod knowingly at this post. My parents have been juicing for years. And for years they’ve been trying to talk us into juicing. Her juices are 80% fruit 20% vegetable – which is the opposite ratio that’s recommended by most doctors, but I’m not telling them that.

So, first step to juicing? Buy a juicer. Here’s the one I got. Notice the placement of the juicer next to the cookie jar. Perfect.

I went with the Breville Juice Fountain Plus – it had the best reviews online and it also happened to be the one they used in the movie. Sorry these pictures are all a bit overexposed or something. I think it’s my inner glow from juicing that caused this. Really.

I did some juice recipe research and spent the weekend buying veggies and fruits. I was telling the kids not to eat the fruit because it was for juicing until I realized how bananas I sounded. I let them eat whatever they wanted. On that note – you cannot juice bananas. Fyi.

I was off and running. I juiced it all! Kale. Spinach. Carrots. Celery. Swiss Chard.

I snuck in some beets too. Don’t tell my husband, he thinks he doesn’t like beets.

Here’s the results…please ignore the Stoudt’s brewery tasting glass…slim pickin around here for drinking glasses. This is the tomato, carrot, beet concoction. Delicious.

This is the spinach, cucumber, ginger and apple combo. Equally good. I strained this juice to get all the little bits out. Then I panicked and thought that maybe I strained all the goodness out so I dumped it all back in.

Tomorrow I’ll be making a watermelon, papaya and mint combo. Exciting times.

This is called planking I think. 20/20 did a report on how it’s all the rage. Do you still watch 20/20? I do, even though I don’t think it’s called that anymore. Apparently you are supposed to snap shots of yourself planking in all kinds of different places.

It looks like excercise to me.

Here’s what my two lunatics were up to – not sure where my husband and I were, but I’m sure we weren’t planking, ahem.

Please note – there are photos below with my kid’s faces on a stove top. No children were harmed in this silliness. Please don’t call anybody.

UPDATE: my son told me this morning, after I’d written the post, that planking is OVER. This was last year and they do not do it anymore. Just so ya know.

All through high school my hair was long. Really long. Down to my butt long. It was wavy and thick and beautiful. The week before I graduated I got it all cut off – thanks to Tasha Fogelman and her continuous peer pressure.

That’s when it all went down hill. My long waves became short frizz.

In college it didn’t matter. No one cared. It was cool to not care.

Then I got my first real city jobs working with city girls. Everyone had straight, sleek hair. I discovered this magical thing called a blow-out. It was so…civilized.

Since then I’ve dedicated a good deal of my life to straightening my hair. Flat square brushes, big round brushes, anti-frizz serum. Those are my friends.